


How to Love

by YourFadedGlory (HisNameWasAce)



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 5+1 Things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-06
Updated: 2014-05-06
Packaged: 2018-01-23 18:01:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1574606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HisNameWasAce/pseuds/YourFadedGlory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Sid claimed he was used to the abuse that Philly hurls at him, and the one time someone set him straight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How to Love

**Author's Note:**

> All mistakes are my own.
> 
> Warning: This story contains mentions of violence and the use of a homophobic slur.

_“Life is a ﬁght, but not everyone’s a ﬁghter. Otherwise, bullies would be an endangered species.” ― Andrew Vachss_

 

 **1\. Cindy**

Sidney didn’t have to see the signs to know that they were there. 

While the message had always been the same, it seemed that over the years Philly’s faithful had gotten a bit more creative with the accessories, adding makeup and earrings to him, and photoshopping on a variety of wigs and tears. 

Sid admired their dedication on some level, smirking as he skated by his feminine likeness during warmups. 

The most notable of the signs was pressed to the glass, it’s owner slapping his meaty hand against it with a cruel sneer. 

Sid remembered him, remembered the first time he’d seen the sign during his rookie season and how his stomach had sunk with dread. 

It had been naive to think that the bullying, and the harassment would be a thing of the past once he made it to the big leagues. But he only knew that in retrospect. 

While it’d taken a couple of games on Philly’s home ice for him to stop being rubbed the wrong way by the sight of his cheeks splashed with blush and his eyes covered in blue eyeshadow, he had eventually put it behind him, just like he had as a kid. 

Skating one more lap past the sign, Sid couldn’t help but chuckle as the man rose to his feet, rattling the glass with the force of his palm.

“What’re you laughing at _Cindy_?” He jeered, loud enough to carry over the volume of the crowd.

It didn’t matter much though, being called ‘Cindy’ hadn’t bothered him for years.

He was used to it.

 

 **2\. Beer Showers**

Sid should have known better than to take his helmet off in the penalty box, honestly he should have, especially considering they were playing in the Wells Fargo Center.

It wasn’t more than a few seconds after he’d sat down that a frothy downpouring of beer came crashing down on top of him. 

“Have a drink Crosby!” The man spit, before hurling his cup over the glass too. 

Sid grimaced at the feeling of the beer soaking into his undershirt and his pads, his hair dripping with it.

Still it could have been worse. He’d had hot chocolate hurled at him before, while he was playing Juniors, and slushies too. Beer only seemed to be part of the natural progression of things. 

Taking the offered towel, he dried what he could, before handing it and the empty beer cup back to the almost apologetic looking attendant. 

Sid shrugged off the look with a thin smile. “It’s nothing I’m not used to.” He joked, stepping out onto the ice and gliding back to the safety of his own bench.

 

**3\. The Fifth Line**

Games against Philly were always chippy.

Sid wasn’t at all surprised when things ended up going awry and he found himself tangled up with Giroux. 

What did surprise him though was the water bottle that came flying out of the stands. It soared over Giroux’s shoulder, missing his head by less than half an inch, and nailed him in the face.

“ _Fuck._ ”

Sid groaned, dropping the grip he had on the other’s sweater and reaching instinctively for his face. His hands came away bloody, red running thick and hot from what he assumed to be a broken nose. 

When he looked back up Giroux was gone and there was a ref holding onto his elbow and forcing him back toward the Penguin’s bench where one of the trainers was already scrambling over with a towel. 

He missed what remained of the second period, getting his nose shoved back into place with a sickening pop, and enduring the painfully familiar concussion test. 

Chris wasn’t taking any chances, keeping a hawk like vigilance over him through the entire intermission, after which he reluctantly agreed that Sid was cleared to be back on the ice. 

“You’re gonna have a hell of a pair of shiners kid.” He warned, digging his thumbs into the the tender skin under Sid’s eyes. They’d be swollen shut and a mottled pattern of blues and blacks before they even got back to the airport. 

“That’s just how Philly’s fifth line plays it Chris, dirty and underhanded. But hey, I’m used to it.”  
Sid reasoned, lumbering back down the tunnel to rejoin his team, all the while pretending he didn’t see the saddened down turn of the trainer’s lips.

 

**4\. Cruel Kiddos**

“Will you sign this?”

Sid glanced down, mildly surprised by the request.

There was a little girl standing there, her blonde hair blowing in the breeze, and front tooth missing from her ear to ear grin. She was holding out what looked like a homemade sign, the lettering nice and neat, like she’d actually put in the effort for it to look good. 

Ignoring her choice in outfit, a bright orange Flyer’s t-shirt, Sid dropped to one knee and accepted the sharpy she offered him with a giggle.

It took a minute before he got the joke. 

The lettering was nice and neat, the words were anything but. 

**HEY CRYBABY HERE ARE SOME TISSUES.**

Swallowing past the lump that had formed in his throat, he uncapped the marker and signed in the corner, next to a wad of tissues that had been glued on. 

“Thanks Mr. Crosbaby.” She singsonged, skipping back toward a group of older boys, her brothers Sid guessed. They had a sign too, neon green and sloppy as most teenage boy’s work was.

**HOW’S THE HEAD SID? THE ONE UP TOP NOT THE ONE YOU’RE USED TO SUCKING.**

Getting back to his feet, Sid brushed the gravel off of the knee of his suit and hustled into the arena, ignoring the cold and raucous laughter echoing behind him.

Hatred was hatred, no matter who was dishing it out or how old they were.

He was used to hatred, he was. 

And if he said it enough times maybe it’d be true one day. 

 

**5\. A Standing Ovation**

Sid knew it was bad.

He was there one second and gone the next, the hazy image of white and orange jerseys blurring above him before the black came crashing back, only to recede and return like a wave against the shore. 

When he blinked back into full consciousness he was still surrounded by a wall of scabbling players.

He knew he couldn’t stay there, knew that he had to get to the bench. 

Pulling his knees up under him he rose unsteadily to his feet. 

Nothing seemed to be connecting quite right, his thoughts and actions disjointed like there was a time lag between them. There was a vicious ringing in his ears and the world seemed to tilt each time he set his skate down.

Listing from side to side as he wobbled his way out of the bedlam, Sid was nearly crawling by the time he reached the bench, his neck aching and his head throbbing.

Chris was at his side in an instant, his voice muffled and far away. 

The black came back, rushing in and out in a dizzying sequence.

One moment he was sitting dazed on the ice, the next he was slumped over and Chris was screaming in his ear, and eventually he came to while flat on a gurney before falling back under.

It wasn’t his imagination when he heard the crowd roar in delight while he was being rolled off. His first standing ovation in Philly, and it was for a hit that might cost him his career. 

The thought hurt.

Granted it was a dull hurt, one he’d gotten used to, and Sid found it sad that he was referring to both the ache of Philly’s hatred and the pain of a severe concussion. 

 

**+1 You Deserve Better**

Claude hated hospitals.

He hated being in a hospital at two in the morning with fucking _Crosby_ even more. 

With a scowl etched permanently into his face he watched ‘Officer Montoya’ hand the other man a small business card with the precinct number and his name scrawled onto it. Then Montoya was up and out the door and back into the city’s underbelly.

Claude didn’t envy him, nor did he envy Crosby.

“It’s going to scar.” He muttered, unaware that he’d said so aloud.

“Yeah...it is.” Sidney replied softly, reaching across his exposed chest to press his fingers against his mummified left shoulder.

Every time Claude closed his eyes he saw the word that was carved beneath the bandages, that would mar Crosby’s body for years to come. 

It made him sick, thinking about the hatred that people had to have to hold a man down in some filthy back alley and put a blade to his skin like a pen to paper. 

He wasn’t proud of Philly, not to tonight, and probably not for a while. 

“Thank you, for doing what you did.” There was a crushing amount of sincerity behind Crosby’s gratitude, and Claude didn’t exactly feel like he deserved it.

“Anyone would have done it.” He replied stiffly, meeting the other’s whiskey colored eyes briefly. 

Anyone would have punched in that asshole’s teeth, anyone would have snapped his wrist like a toothpick. He’d just happened to be the someone that was there.

“I guess I should be used to it by now, how much this city hates me.” Sid muttered, pulling his shirt back on, and wincing slightly as the movement pulled at the fresh stitches. 

Claude just gaped at him, mouth literally open as rage lit fire to his blood. 

“You did not just fucking say that. You did not just say that you should be _used_ to that kind of abuse.” Claude snarled, getting to his feet. 

“That psycho jumped you in a back alley and _attacked_ you. He carved the word ‘faggot’ into your shoulder, and you should be _used_ to that?!” He was nearly shouting, towering over Sidney and wondering how the hell the ‘savior of hockey’ had developed such a warped sense of what he should and should not be used to.

“You should be used to being checked into the boards, you should be used to Pierre McGuire creeping on your personal life.” Claude exhaled, the fight going out of him. 

“Having water bottles thrown at you, beer dumped on you, and god fucking forbid psychotic assholes come at you with a knife are not things you should be _used_ to, they aren’t things you brush off and accept.” He insisted, watching Crosby’s eyes widen in surprise. 

“God, I didn’t actually think you were a moron.” Claude moaned, backing off the bambi eyed brunette to grab his coat and shrug it back on. 

“Let’s go, Bylsma is probably getting ready to burn the city to the ground to find you.” He muttered, grudgingly helping Sid into his coat and shuffling him out to his car...which now had blood soaking into the upholstery of the back seat, _goddammit_ Crosby.

Going off of the other man’s brilliant directions, ‘it’s pretty and about three blocks from the rink.’ Claude managed to get the damn flightless bird back to his flock, completely unsurprised to find half the team milling around outside of the front entrance to the Hilton, all of them glued to their phone and looking sick with worry. 

Before Crosby had a chance to make his escape, Claude reached out and clapped his uninjured shoulder with a solemn seriousness. 

“You deserve better.” He muttered, meeting those surprise filled whiskey eyes with a huff of exasperation. 

“Don’t look at me like that.” Claude growled, itchingly uncomfortable with that much of Sid’s limited emoting focused on him. 

“I guess I’m just not used to it.” Sid replied, a small smile pulling at his lips.

“Used to what?” Claude asked, his lips pressed into a firm line. 

“You not acting like you hate me.” Sid said smoothly, undoing his seatbelt and popping out of the car with another ‘thank you’ and a small wave. 

Fucking golden boy. 

“I still hate you!” Claude called after him, pouting when he realized the door of his SUV was already shut. 

“I do, I still hate him.” He grumbled to his steering wheel, but the words were empty. 

The next time he saw the idiot in Philly, his head was held just a little bit higher.

**Author's Note:**

> I am a terrible awful person, who will one day get around to updating Angles, I promise.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this. I honestly love Sid & Claude together in any sort of relationship, but I felt like their tag could use a little less hate sex and a little more fluff.


End file.
